


Days Gone By

by Foreverwholockedme



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet Ending, F/M, M/M, Pining John, Pining Sherlock, Retirementlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-11 19:40:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2080671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foreverwholockedme/pseuds/Foreverwholockedme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John reunite as old men and both share what they went through in their time apart and attempt to reconcile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Days Gone By

The tombstone is worn and grey, with the air composed of anger, grief, and relief. John stares at the headstone with a blank expression as he lets all the memories that come with the name that is engraved in it.

_“Mary Watson_

_Mother and loving wife_

_May she rest in peace.”_

He could never stand to read it. She looked loving at first, sure, but that was only because he was so fixated on forgetting about the death of his best friend. The death of the man he loved dearly. He remembers the years he spent drinking his sorrows away trying to replay the last conversation he’s ever had with his best friend before he jumped. In his mind he would try to tell Sherlock all the things that he never could, but he didn’t. And he watched him die. But he got a second chance when Sherlock returned from the dead. He was trying to propose that night, but it was ruined with the return of a ghost.

John thought that he could finally be happy again. He was getting married to the woman he loved, and had his friend back. He thought that he could move on. But like most things in the doctor’s life, it was never that simple. He should’ve known that life with Sherlock would never be easy or calm, but he could never get rid of the rush he felt with him. He felt the surge of excitement, anxiousness, and many other times, ecstasy. It was more than what he ever felt with Mary. She was something of a stress relief, his form of therapy, the piece of the puzzle that didn’t quite belong. But it seemed like she was getting along with Sherlock, she even told John that she liked him when they met the night he returned. He didn’t see that behind the beautiful mask of kindness and warmth, was a cold and ruthless assassin. He should’ve noticed that she was using her own mental mind games on Sherlock and on John too. She made it look like she wanted John and Sherlock together, solving crimes like before and loving every minute of it, but she was only trying to push Sherlock away. She was a selfish lover.

John never saw the twinge of frustration whenever he mentioned Sherlock or even spoke about a case.

_“God, I had six months of bristly kisses for me and then his nibs turns up…”_

She always hid her dislike of him behind jokes and passive-aggressive comments.

_“See? That does happen!”_

And John was too blinded by the domestic bliss to even notice.

_“What about you?”_

She said that to him when he announced her pregnancy on their wedding night. He wasn’t listening, he was too wrapped up in her, he didn’t see Sherlock alone on the dance floor with nobody to dance with, and he didn’t watch his friend leave the wedding alone. He found all this out from Molly, after Sherlock was long gone. He abandoned Sherlock for a whole month and spent it with Mary. Completely forgetting about his blog, and not remembering to update it with the cases that solved with Sherlock. He couldn’t believe that he would find Sherlock in the drug den, not when he spent so many years sober, but then he never thought about why Sherlock would end up there in the first place. He could never forget what took place over the course of the year. The highlight being when Mary shot Sherlock because she couldn’t let John find out about her dark past. She tried to kill his Sherlock out of love for John.  John spent a long time after that furious at her, and pissed off at himself for not noticing that she was hiding something. But something deep within him knew that she was dangerous, but he ignored it, and some part of him liked it. He forgot that she was carrying their baby and reconciled with her at Christmas, but he didn’t love her as much as he thought he did when they first got married.

He wasn’t sleeping at their house as much as he used to, he found himself at Baker Street many nights in a row. It felt right, seeing Sherlock wake up in the morning with his hair all messy from the sleep that he would eventually succumb to, yawning and stretching his long limbs in every which way, and then walking over to John and asking for a cup of tea with the rare smile on his face. John noticed that they smiled a lot more in each other’s company. Sherlock would sit in his chair and just stare at John for long periods of time, John would pretend not to notice, but he would eventually make eye contact with Sherlock.

_“It’s been a while since that chair was used, John.”_

That was all he would say before going about his morning. John agreed. He missed the familiar grooves of the armchair from his time away. He missed the sensation of Sherlock being near him, his scent filling the air whenever he walked in. It just wasn’t the same without Sherlock.

Their time was cut short when Mary gave birth. John was on his way to work, he spent the night at the flat again and so he got the call from the hospital. When he got there, he found her. Her blonde hair was stuck to her face with the perspiration of a long and tortuous process, her face downtrodden with pain, but it wasn’t only caused by the pain that is childbirth, but it felt deeper and more emotional. It wasn’t until after he was trying to get his bearings together, he noticed that the room lacked a few things, one of them being the baby itself and the other was lack of happiness and joy in the atmosphere. Mary didn’t say it but John knew he’s seen it happen before. The baby was stillborn. He had to stay with her now; he had to help her heal, he couldn’t leave her with the weight of her…their dead baby still keeping her down, he had to hurt with her. He told Sherlock, and he understood, like John knew he would. That was the last time he’s seen Sherlock. He didn’t mean to abandon Sherlock for a second time, but the death of his child hit him hard. Mary didn’t help matters either, they fought even more. Both threw around harsh words to bring the other down a peg because that was the only way they could deal with the death of the one thing that kept them together. John hated Mary as the years rolled by, but he wanted to help her through her pain. It was the doctor in him and the smallest part of him that wanted to be a good husband, even if she was a shoddy excuse of a wife.

But nothing was working. Every time John wanted to leave her for good, she would sink into a horrible depression and has even attempted her life on occasions, which John stopped. He couldn’t see that anymore, he’s seen good men take their lives on the battlefield countless times when things were getting bad, he’s seen Sherlock commit suicide, even if he wasn’t really dead, he can’t lose more people, even if he regretted ever meeting them. He was angry, he harbored all of his hate and rage for her over the years, but whenever he would find her sat in her chair that was old and dingy from the neglect that owner reflected on it, crying her eyes out, up to her neck in empty beer bottles, calling her child’s name, and weeping bitter tears for the marriage that was ruined so many years ago, he couldn’t help but sympathize. They took a vow, for better or for worse, but they’ve been experiencing the worse ever since that night.

John eventually found her dead one morning. He wasn’t surprised, her health was failing as she got older, and her melancholy wasn’t helping her situation. She was lying in their bed, as if she was sleeping. Only this time, she wasn’t going to wake up. He sat by her beside for a while, just staring at her, thinking about how she wished for death every night, her cries kept him up, leaving him sleep-deprived. He even wished, for a short moment, for her wish to be answered. He was trying to look on the bright-side, but how can anything be bright, in his dark world? The only time he had experienced happiness was with Sherlock. Sherlock was the one shining light in his life. He hasn’t seen Sherlock in almost twenty years; once again, he was occupied with Mary. His limp came back, a few weeks after Mary’s funeral. He buried her with their daughter; they didn’t name her because they would only break even more. But John called her Rachel, after the pink lady’s stillborn daughter. He had that in common with her.

He returned to his empty house and just looked around, cane in his hand, hair grey and face covered in wrinkles from living a hard and stressful life. He was alone again. He rested his cane to the side and then started playing with the dirty, wedding band he was wearing. He never took it off. Mary removed hers after they came back from the hospital with no baby in their arms. She proceeded to blame him for the rest of their time together. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. All he saw was dark curls, and light blue eyes staring at him with the welcomed tone of Sherlock’s voice speaking to him in his mind.

_“The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street.”_

_“I’m a Consulting Detective, the only one in the world.”_

John felt his mouth twitch into a smirk. It felt strange, since he’s only frowned since leaving Baker Street for a second time. That was his Sherlock, always dark and mysterious. He loved every bit of the man. But it’s been far too long, Sherlock must have moved on, John hasn’t talked to him in so many years, he probably forgot about him, deleted him, as Sherlock would say. John wouldn’t even blame him.

_“You’re hardly going to need me around now that you have a real baby on the way.”_

John never understood why he said that, but now he does. Sherlock told John that he was losing him, that he was Mary’s now. John wasn’t going to need him anymore because he’s going to have a family, a real family, and there was no room for him. How wrong he was, John needs him now more than ever. He opened his eyes, and they wandered him over to the band again. He can’t wear this around, it reminded him of a time where he thought everything was better, but it was only tragic. What he wanted was Sherlock. Sherlock was the only thing that could save him from himself. He grabbed his cane, clenched his jaw and the rose up from his miserable chair and walked out of the house to go find the one person who can make everything right again.   
~~~~  
He made his way to Baker Street, he and Sherlock called it home, and then after a while, only Sherlock called it such a name. He stared at the building; it was definitely showing its age, like John himself. Walking inside on brought the feeling of nostalgia from decades ago. He saw images of him and Sherlock bouncing around the staircase, running back and forth, usually John trailed behind Sherlock, and walking up to Mrs. Hudson’s door to ask her for food or something to help with their case. He knocked on the former landlady’s door only to find a woman who was many years younger than the original owner. She looked similar to Mrs. Hudson, so obviously a relative. She smiled warmly at the sight of the ex-soldier.

“You’re John Watson, right?”

Confused, he responded with a nod.

“Yes, how did you know?”

Her face was radiant with the youth he never had.

“My great aunt always talked about you, and she has pictures of you and Sherlock Holmes, many pictures. She used to show it to me all the time when I was younger.”

“How old are you?”

“I’m thirty-one, sir.”

What he wouldn’t give to be thirty-one again.

“Where is Mrs. Hudson? “

Her smile was wiped off her face the moment he asked.

“That’s right, you don’t know. You haven’t been back here in so long.”

John was growing concerned.

“What’s wrong?”

The woman stood straighter, her brown waves falling to her back instead of resting on one shoulder. Her eyes darkened.

“Mrs. Hudson…my great aunt…she died. Ten years ago to be exact.”

John gasped and almost fell on his cane.

“She was getting older, and her joints…they didn’t work so well. She was cleaning the walls on the top of the steps one day and…as she was making her way back down here, her knee gave out, she fell down and…her neck…it snapped….”

He swallowed the lump in his throat. He couldn’t stomach it, but he had to hear the rest.

“W-….who found her?”

Her green eyes were glazed over with the tears of grief.

“Sherlock did. He came home from a case later that day, and he saw her…lifeless corpse all twisted and misshapen lying on the floor.”

John’s heart was saddened for what Sherlock must have gone through. He knows how much Sherlock loved her, even if he never expressed it as much as he would like to. Oh god, how could he be so disconnected from his friend for so long? How could he miss the chance to help him through his loss, to try and rekindle what they once had? How could he leave Sherlock alone to go through such a dark time?

“He didn’t talk much after that. He went to her funeral, but he didn’t stay for the actual burial, that’s where I saw him first. He looked so…troubled. It was like he was already hurting, but this just made everything a thousand times worse. I decided to move in here, to check on him because from what Martha…my aunt…told me, he didn’t have a lot of friends, and nobody looked all that concerned about him, if they noticed his presence. Every time I went up there, he was in the same position, sitting on his chair with his head facing towards the window, some nights I would hear the violin playing. But the songs it produced were only somber. He barely ate; he would eat just enough to get by. Nobody ever came to visit him.”

Nobody came because they all expected John to help him like he’s done so many times before. They all expected Dr. John Watson to save the day. But John was busy tending to a lost cause.

“He finally came to me, all on his own; I couldn’t believe that he knew how to walk. He had his coat on and his violin in his hand. He told me that he couldn’t remain here any longer, to many reminders, too many memories. He said that somebody sold him a cottage in Sussex Downs, an old friend from years ago. He told me that he wasn’t coming back, and he’ll send for his stuff. And just like that, he was gone. I haven’t seen him since. And now here you are.”

So Janine sold him the cottage she lived in? She used the money she made from the media to buy it then. John remembered reading it, he remembered being very upset and even a bit jealous. Sherlock told him all those years ago that he wasn’t into women; he should’ve known those tabloids weren’t true. It took him some weeks to get over those bold letters; he even stopped reading the paper for a few days. But John couldn’t believe it, Sherlock was gone. But he could still get to him. He had to.

“Please, what’s your name?”

“Lauren.”

“Do you have the address to his cottage? I need to see him.”

“Well I have the address he gave me, for when the movers came, I think I left it…hold on a minute.”

She closed the door. John’s self-hatred grew. He let Sherlock grieve alone, Sherlock had nobody to talk to, of course he left; he didn’t have any reason to stay any longer. Everybody left him, John especially. She returned with the little post-it note with the address on it.

“It’s deep in the country, so I’m sure it’ll take quite some time. You’re going to need a car.”

“That’s alright; I’ll use my wife’s car. God knows she won’t need it anymore.”

Lauren gave a faint smile.

“He missed you, you know. There were some nights where I found him staring at your chair and a few mornings where I found him sleeping in it.”

“I missed him too.”

More than he could possibly say.

“Thank you for this. I mean it.”

“Don’t thank me; just do what you have to do.”

Those were wise words.  
~~~~~  
It was cozy looking, he supposed, quaint little thing. Lauren was right, it was deep in the country, took John a few hours to get here. The colors were comfortable, pale and pastel. There were lavender bushes growing in the front, along with other miscellaneous plants around the house. Sherlock would have never planted that, so it might be some of the things Janine left behind. He stood in front of the car for who knows how long. The sun was setting, changing the colors of the sky into something from a beautiful painting. Was anybody home? He couldn’t tell if the lights were on or not because of the sky.

“You won’t accomplish anything standing here.” He whispered to himself.

With an extra boost from his cane, he made his way to the front door. It was so tidy, Janine must have kept it pristine and Sherlock finished where she left off. The faint sound of buzzing was heard. Sherlock must have finally started bee-keeping. John could faintly recall the discussion they had about retirement, when things seemed to be okay and they were happy. Sherlock told him that he’s always had a penchant for them and would someday like to keep his own little collection. John laughed, and Sherlock wasn’t too happy when he did. He didn’t think Sherlock was serious. Sherlock forgave him afterwards, because he realized that it did sound a little funny coming from his mouth. John never thought that he would be into something like that.

He raised his hand and curled his fingers into a fist, he slowly rapped on the door. Anxiety was starting to make its way into his system. What was he going to say? It was already hard enough to talk to Sherlock when he was around him 24/7, but after a gap of ten plus years? There was so much he missed out on. Sherlock could be married by now, have a nice wife and child, who moved on and got older, and who is probably expecting their own in a few months. He couldn’t picture Sherlock getting married, but he probably found somebody who helped him move on, made him happier. Hell, John did the same thing once upon a time. But the thought of Sherlock being with somebody else…he couldn’t fathom it. That was something John and Mary shared, both are selfish lovers.

Nobody answered. So his suspicions were confirmed. Sherlock wasn’t home and so he would just have to wait until he got back, whenever that would be. He heard a familiar voice after waiting for only a few moments.

“The years haven’t been kind to you.”

John spun as quickly as he could. He found Sherlock standing there, he had a bag of what looked like groceries, but John could scarcely believe it, Sherlock went food-shopping by himself. Despite being fifty-nine years young, the only signs of Sherlock’s middle-age were the extra wrinkles around his mouth and eyes, along with the few streaks of grey in his curls. Other than that, John still saw the youthful man that captivated him all of those years ago. John could barely contain his excitement and grin at the sight of his old friend.

“Sherlock!”

He limped down the stairs and then grabbed Sherlock in the tightest hug he could manage. It felt so nice to touch him, to feel him again. His smell was back in John’s mind, burned into it. He could hear the low rumble of Sherlock’s laugh and the touch of his hand on John’s back as he moved it up and down. John couldn’t help it but pat his back. He still had the coat, from all of those years.

“Hello, John Watson, it’s been a while since we’ve seen each other, don’t you think?”

John felt himself sigh; he could never get over the sound of his voice, after so long without it. He had to pry himself off of Sherlock because he didn’t ever want to let go. His smile never wavered; his cheeks were starting to hurt.

“Yeah, no kidding.”

Sherlock’s smile was small, but it was full of so much warmth.

“Shall I take you inside? Or will we spend the remainder of the night standing out here hugging, because I’m getting rather cold.”

“Let’s…let’s go inside. Inside is good.”

Sherlock gave a nod and then made his way to the porch. He made sure John was standing behind him when he opened the door and then he let John enter first. The inside made John want to curl up on the floor and fall asleep. It was nice and warm and so very inviting now that the owner was in it. The fire was just put out; he could hear the crackling of the burnt wood and smell the scent of fire. He watched as Sherlock emerged from the kitchen and took a seat in his chair. He motioned for John to take his seat. John was so happy to be reunited that he almost didn’t notice that he took a seat in his old armchair. Sherlock kept it all of these years. He was facing Sherlock now. Sherlock never got rid of the chair, he probably moved it himself because he didn’t trust the movers to handle with the care he had for it. John saw the imprints of his hands on the arms, from all the past times he sat down in it. He left it how John touched it, never mind the nights he slept in it, like Lauren said. It was the only thing of John’s that he had. That he could remember him by. Just like that, the air was heavy and John tried everything to not openly weep in front of the man he’s wanted for so long.

“You kept my chair…”

Sherlock’s cheeks flushed.

“It meant so much to you, John. You loved that chair; I couldn’t just throw it out.”

“But I haven’t touched it in so many years. My bum grooves are not even imprinted in it any longer. You could have thrown it out and I would have never known.”

“And why would I do that?”

John saw Sherlock’s face soften. He always hated seeing Sherlock so vulnerable because he knew what was going to happen next.

”I just thought that…maybe you wouldn’t want to have this thing taking up space, is all. Not when it’s been vacant for decades.”

He wasn’t going to tell Sherlock that he knew.

“I would never do that, John.”

“Why?”

Sherlock paused for a moment.

“Would you like some tea? I bought some whilst grocery shopping and I’m eager to find out what it tastes like.”

He dodged the question entirely.

“Yes, I could go for a cuppa at the moment. The trip here tired me out.”

Sherlock didn’t respond but John heard him fussing around with the kettle and preparing everything. John couldn’t explain how happy he was to hear Sherlock’s angry mumbling. It was an eternity ago before he heard it. The cottage looked like the interior of Baker Street, with the few exceptions. There were pictures on the walls. John didn’t see anything that looked like wedding pictures, or any newborn children that looked like it could be Sherlock’s. So he hasn’t gotten married, that was good. Sherlock emerged from the kitchen with a tray of tea in his hands. With carefulness, he set it down on the table in front of them and then took his seat with his cup in hand.

“There’s no sugar in yours, since you don’t take sugar.”

John took a sip.

“This is really good.”

Sherlock smiled.

“Well, you know when you spend such a long time alone, you learn a few things.”

John stared at his tea. He wasn’t in the mood for it anymore.

“Yes, I know what you mean.”

Sherlock didn’t seem to take a sip of his at all. He set his down next to him and then steepled his hands under his chin.

“You got your limp back.”

John cringed at the mention. He looked over at the cane and then back at Sherlock.

“Yes, I did.”

John could have sworn that Sherlock looked sympathetic.

“Ah. That is unfortunate. I’m sorry.”

John couldn’t take it anymore. There was so much tension engulfing them.

“Cut the shit, Sherlock. Talk to me; tell me how you’re feeling. Get angry at me, I know you want to.”

“Why would I be angry at you?”

“Because I know that I abandoned you, and that I left you alone for so long, Sherlock. I know that you’ve gone through things that you shouldn’t have alone. I was supposed to be with you forever but I wasn’t. I let Mary get in the way of us and God, Sherlock I am sorry for that, I am so sorry. But I’m worried about you, I want you to talk to me, I need you to trust me again.”

John didn’t want it to happen like this, but he needed Sherlock to vent. Nobody should have so much pent up inside of them. Sherlock sat there, in his calm and cool demeanor. Who knows what he was thinking about? John was very worried and was going to make his way over to him when Sherlock finally opened his mouth.

“Everybody’s gone.”

Sherlock all but whispered it and John could barely hear him.

“What was that?”

“Everybody is gone. Mycroft died. Mrs. Hudson died. Molly is sick…Lestrade….”

“What happened to them? Mycroft, Molly, and Greg, I mean.”

“Mycroft had a heart attack. Poor diet and too much stress. I told the bastard that he was going to die at an early age if he didn’t cut back on the cakes….

Lestrade, he didn’t realize how old he was getting until he got shot by a criminal he was after. He was in a coma for a while, but they pulled the plug because he was a husk, and it seemed merciful.

Molly, dear Molly, she took ill. She just got sick one day, out of the blue. Never really found out what she had, never cared to hear. A sickness is still a sickness no matter what name it has. She died peacefully, or so I’m told.

Janine gave me this cottage. She was fighting breast cancer….and the cancer finally won.

And Mrs. Hudson…I’m sure Lauren told you, since you came here looking for me.”

“Sherl…”

“I missed you, John. I waited for you every day. I thought that maybe if I did something, play your favorite song on the violin, clean the flat, go on a case, you would come back. But you never did.”

“I know and I’m so sor—“

“You had your own problems, I understand that, John. I just wish…I just wish you came back.”

John saw the tear slide down Sherlock’s cheek. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing and yet he hated it. He hated for being the cause of the tears.

“I’ve always been meaning to tell you, how I felt, for so many years, but we haven’t seen each other. We haven’t talked. I thought that maybe I could when I came back, but you were trying to propose to Mary and then every time after that seemed like an inopportune moment.”

“Sherlock, why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“Would you have even returned the feeling? For all of the times that people thought we were a couple you were always keen on shutting them down.”

John turned away. It was true, but it was only because he was in denial. He loved Sherlock, but he was always a stubborn man.

“I sat and watched you get married, because you were so happy. You didn’t see how hard it was me because I didn’t let you. I picked out decorations and clothes, for a wedding that wasn’t mine. I got fitted for a tuxedo that wasn’t for a groom.”

“Sherlock…”

“I watched you walk down the aisle with somebody who wasn’t me.”

Sherlock’s voice was trailing off.

“The worst part of it all was that I deduced the pregnancy. I thought that maybe I could fit into the circle some way, somehow, but it was closed off to me because you were going to have a child. You weren’t going to need me anymore, but I still needed you.”

John’s eyes were tearing up now.

“You don’t understand, John. Everything I have ever done since the wedding was to make you happy and to make sure you were still safe. I wanted you to have a happy marriage and to live a long happy life, even if I wasn’t the one you chose to spend it with.”

“Alright, stop it now.”

“Even though it killed me to see you with her, almost literally, I might add, nothing made me happier than to see you smile. And because I…care for you…a great deal…I let you go. I let you go be with someone who wasn’t dangerous, who wasn’t chasing down dangerous criminals, who couldn’t even take care of themselves properly, who couldn’t even make you happy….Someone who wasn’t me.”

John was crying. Sherlock was crying too, but his tears were silent. John’s were sloppy and all over the place.

“But I didn’t want someone else, Sherlock, I wanted you. I still want you. I…goddamn it I love you!”

Sherlock’s hands remained steepled and he sat there, like a robot with saltwater tears running down his cheeks, not making eye contact with John, who now knelt before him.

“I…care for you too, John Watson…”

John shook his head. No, he wasn’t doing this. He wasn’t going to revert back to that ice king that John found when they first met. He was going to be Sherlock, the genius who felt everything all at once.

“No, no, Sherlock that’s not how this is going to go. You’re going to tell me exactly what you feel. You’re going to say ‘I love you, John Watson.’”

Sherlock’s emotion started to show on his face. He looked pained when he met John’s sad eyes and his lip was starting to quiver.

“John…Watson….I…I…love….you…”

John grabbed his hand and forced a smile.

“I love you too, Sherlock. I love you too.”

Sherlock winced and looked away again.

“We can’t do this, John, not now. It’s too late. It’s far too late.”

John’s grip on his hand tightened substantially.

“No, don’t say that. There’s always time!”

“We don’t have that long anyway! I’m coming up on sixty and you’re sixty-five, even if we went through with this, it wouldn’t work out. Believe me there is nothing I want more than to spend the rest of my life with you, but how much of our life is left?”

John understood, of course he did.

“We can’t get married, all of our friends and family are dead, and anything could happen to us! You could get sick, or take a nasty slip; you could have a heart attack, or you could even get Alzheimer’s! We’re old John, and old people either have someone to die with, or they have none at all. I don’t want to finally have you, and then lose you, John. I don’t.”

John thought about what he said. He was right, so much could happen, they waited too long to act on their feelings, and now this is the price they have to pay. With a deep, regretful sigh, John grabbed Sherlock’s chin and pressed his lips against the detective’s. The rage from the punishment of waiting, the relief of finally feeling Sherlock’s lips pressed against his, and the love that was bottled up for so long that would get to leak through for only a short while. When he was sure he needed air, he released them, leaving Sherlock wonderfully surprised. For a moment, Sherlock actually looked happy and content, he was waiting for this for so long and it was what he ached for, but then opened his eyes and saw the reality he was thrust back into. Their faces weren’t smooth with youth, it wasn’t the flat, and nobody was smiling. Sherlock’s tears resumed and John pressed his lips to Sherlock’s hand.

“We could have been so happy together, Sherlock…”

Sherlock’s lips tugged into a forced smile.

“We were, John. We were…”

Through those smiling facades, was the anguish and remorse of two men who couldn’t quite get the words out when they wanted to, and are now paying the price. Now the first thing they think when they see each other is one sentence, and one sentence only. 

I'm sorry. 


End file.
